The torches carried by some of the Duned�in cast but little light about in the blackness. They flickered uncertainly, as if something was trying to swallow their tentative flames and they didn�t know how to resist. In their wavering beams of light, glimpses could be caught of tall, rough walls of rock, coated with the dust and spiderwebs of long, dead years. Sometimes runes of a language long forgotten, or symbols too old to decipher could be seen etched in the walls.
All about them Aldamir heard whispers; murmurs of dead voices whose life had long passed. The whispers curled about him like wisps of grey vapor, almost as if they were seeking to bind him like so many ropes. Sometimes in the darkness he saw strange grey shapes, like cold mist, flitting about, and knew that they were the Dead themselves. The unclear shapes followed the company, and their number slowly grew as they went on into the darkness.
After a while his eyes became accustomed to the blackness, and he could see strange things scattered about in the Paths. Goblets, belts, daggers, and jewely of old make lay about, encrusted with jewels and gems and dimmed with dust. Here and there a blade lay, old and rusted, or perhaps an axe, its edge nocked and broken from battles that none could remember. Even old, torn, rusted armour and chain mail lay in places, dented and damaged. Aldamir shivered. The place was full of death; the walls oozed it and the whispers spoke of it. These weapons had slain in days of old, spilt blood and taken lives, wielded by masters who had broken their oath and were now doomed to be without peace in their own death, until their oath was fulfilled.
Silence reigned, broken only by the soft tread of their leather-clad feet, the deadened thud of horses� hooves, and the sound of their fearful, shallow breathing.....
Aldamir lost track of the time they had wandered in the Paths, following Aragorn ever onwards. With every step he took he felt that he was sinking further and further away from light and life, into a crushing blackness. The darkness seemed to settle around them with a deadly satisfaction, as if it knew that it was only a matter of time before it could consume them. None spoke as they walked, but the deadly whispers about them continued and grew in terror.
When they had traveled through the cold darkness for what seemed countless silent hours, though none knew for sure how long they had walked, they came to a great open space and could no longer see walls on either side. They paused for a moment. Dread was heavy upon them all as they stood there; but Aragorn seemed to feel no fear.
Off the pathway, in a black corner, lay something that glittered in the torchlight. Aragorn went to it, and in the glow of his torch they saw the bones of a mighty man, still clad in the gilded mail he had perished in. A golden helmet was still upon his bony head as he lay sprawled on the dusty ground, and about his waist was girt a belt encrusted with red gems. His sword lay notched and shattered by his side, and they could see a forbidding stone door above him. It was scratched and marked where he had hewed at it in despair. Aldamir gazed at the door with dread, and wondered what lay beyond it. Secrets, which perhaps none would uncover as long as the world lasted....
Aragorn did not touch the dead warrior, but sighed as he gazed down upon the bones. "Hither shall the flowers of simbelmyn� never come unto world�s end," he murmured. "Nine mounds and seven there are now green with grass, and through all the long years he has lain at the door that he could not unlock. Whither does it lead? Why would he pass? None shall ever know!
"For that is not my errand!" he cried, and turning, spoke to the whispering shadows behind them. Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"
His voice rang out in the darkness, and the whispering ceased. There was no answer save for the utter and dreadful silence, perhaps more terrifying than the whispers before. Then a sudden chill wind blew through the great chamber, and the torches went out and could not be lighted again. In darkness they must go on, followed by something terrible behind them; and they pressed on.
Aldamir did not know how many more hours he stumbled through the darkness, feeling always that he was pursued by some dreadful horror which groped to catch him. It was as if he could feel cold fingers reaching out for him, grasping for his cloak or his shoulder, but always they fell too short and he struggled onwards. His dread and fear grew as the hours passed; he felt that soon he must either fall dead of the darkness�s poison or be swallowed by the grey shadows pursuing him. He stumbled, and felt as though he were drowning in darkness; it forced itself down his throat, choking him as he sought to keep his grasp upon life.........
He heard noises behind him as of many shadowy feet, falling deadened upon the rocks; ghost-tread of the long-ago armies. When he dared to look backwards, he saw things that resembled a thick, grey mist; an army of unclear shadows following them, bent on a single purpose.....
Then suddenly he heard the tinkle of living, running water, cutting with sharp clearness through the heavy, suffocating darkness, and he lifted his head swiftly. Lo! Ahead of him he saw a light in the darkness, and once again he could see the shapes of the Rangers stumbling onwards ahead of him. Looking to his side, he saw Lindir, deathly pale, looking with wild, hopeful eyes toward the growing light.
And then they came to another gateway, high, arched, and broad, and going through it they passed out of the Paths of the Dead, and they looked at each other with wonder that they were alive. Aldamir gazed upwards into a clear, dark sky, be-jeweled with small sparkling lights, and breathed deeply of the pure, sweet, crisp air. Beside the gate a wild, small mountain-river flowed down over the rocks and cast itself over the edge, and beyond them a narrow, winding road led steeply downwards through a deep ravine.
The company remounted, refreshed and with a new sense of life, and they rode down the pathway between sheer, towering cliffs. Turning in his saddle, Aldamir looked back, and now he could see clearly the shadow-army following them. Many misty shapes were coming after them, bearing banners which were like shreds of grey mist and spears which were like winter-branches encrusted with frost.
"The Dead are following," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "They are coming... they have been summoned..."